Indiscretions of the Queen

Birth and Death

THE whole country was in mourning for the Princess Charlotte. The Prince Regent shut himself in his apartments.

He could face nobody— not even Lady Hertford. He wept bitterly. He forgot his disagreements with his daughter; he only saw her now as his beloved child.

Sir Richard Croft, the accoucheur, had come to him in an utmost demented state. The Prince had tried to comfort him and himself at the same time.

‘They tell me the child was perfect— perfect— and a boy.’

‘It was so, sir. And his features were undoubtedly those of your family.’

The Prince turned away and wiped his eyes. ‘I cannot bear to think of it. Pray leave me to my grief.’

Sir Richard went away and in the streets the people recognized his carriage and booed him. The rumours were already spreading through the town that he had been careless; he had not done his job as he should; he was responsible for the death of their beloved Princess.

The Regent gave way to tears and at the back of his mind was the thought: It is even more important now to rid myself of that woman. It’s not too late. But for her, I could marry again, get another son. They must bring me news of her misconduct. Why can’t the obvious be proved? But it is necessary now— necessary. The Queen was at Bath taking the waters. She had been unwell lately, and her doctors had suggested the visit. Her daughter Elizabeth had accompanied her and they had taken three houses in Sydney Place for themselves and their attendants.

She was glad that her relationship with the Prince Regent was better than it had been for many years. The old battles were done with. He had mellowed, she told herself, and perhaps she was no longer seeking power. It was all his now,.

and her feelings towards him were like those she had had when he was a child, when he had been her favourite.

He had married that odious woman and she would like to see him free of her; not that he needed to marry now that he had a child and this child was about to bear another. She hoped it would be a boy which would please the people and make them love their royal family again. There was nothing like a child to do that.

She remembered how they used to crowd round young George when he was a baby and cheered when he was wheeled into the Park.

How different they were towards him now. Only a few months ago when he returned from the opening of Parliament the mob had surrounded his carriage and thrown mud and all sorts of ill smelling rubbish at it. He had sat in it, ignoring the smell, his scented handkerchief at his nose, a figure of elegance and disdain.

Some people said that a bullet had been fired at him although the sound of it was not heard, so loudly was the mob shouting. They found a hole in the woodwork of the coach though.

Such scenes were frightening. One could never be sure when the mob would get out of hand.

But all that was over for a while. The people would be thinking of the new royal child. The bells would be ringing out and there would be general rejoicing.

She hoped she might have a hand in bringing up the child. It certainly should not be left to flighty Charlotte.

She was eagerly awaiting news of the birth. It must be soon now.

Lady Ancaster, one of her ladies-in-waiting, had come to read to her as she did at this time every day. How strange she looked.

‘Is anything wrong, Lady Ancaster?’

‘Your Majesty—’ Lady Ancaster had begun to sob.

‘It is Charlotte— is it?’

Lady Ancaster tried to speak but could not do so. ‘Something has gone wrong.

The child—’

Lady Ancaster looked at her helplessly. ‘Born dead—’ murmured the Queen.

And she knew the answer.

‘Charlotte—’

Still that look of blank misery.

‘No! No!’ cried the Queen.

But he knew it was true. Charlotte was dead.

Lady Ancaster was startled into action. She ran to get assistance, for the Queen had fainted.

They were saying in the streets that wicked old Queen Charlotte had planned this. She had always hated her young namesake. Why should one so young and healthy die in childbirth?

And what had Sir Richard Croft to do with it?

Why, the old Queen and the accoucheur had plotted together. They were determined that Charlotte should die so they had poisoned her. Sir Richard had neglected her. He had bled her too much. He had weakened her when he should have strengthened her. Who was Sir Richard Croft anyway? The son of a chancery clerk who had become a fashionable doctor.

Wait till they could lay their hands on the old Queen. Wait until they could meet Richard Croft face to face. They had been hoping for a royal birth and the accompanying festivities— and all they would get was a funeral.

Sir Richard Croft blew out his brains and the people were satisfied. After that there was no more talk about the murder of Princess Charlotte and her child.

When the funeral was over the Prince Regent retired to Brighton there to think of the future. He wandered through his ornate rooms and took comfort from all the splendour which was his creation. And all the time he was haunted by a shadow— the shadow of the woman who was his wife. While he was married to her he would know no peace and he longed as never before to be rid of her.

Why would no one help him? Why was it impossible to find just the evidence they needed?

He was determined that he would rid himself of Caroline.

No price was too high to be paid to be free of that woman. He would marry again. This time he would choose his bride.

He often thought of Maria. The greatest mistake of his life might have been marrying Caroline but to leave Maria was almost as grave. They should have been together. She would have comforted him now. He still thought of her at times like these. Lady Hertford— nor any of them— had ever had the solace Maria had to offer.

But it was too late to think of Maria now. She was older than he was and he was no longer young. But not too old to beget a child. And he must. The country needed an heir and he must provide it.

And how?

Now here he was back to the beginning. He must rid himself of that woman.

He went to see the Queen. She received him with great affection. It was pleasant to contemplate that the enmity between them was over. Now they were in perfect accord and she knew why he had come to her.

‘If I died tomorrow, the Duke of York would be King.’

‘With a barren wife who is not long for this world,’ remarked the Queen.

‘And William— he’s living with his large family of Fitzclarences at Bushey.’

‘He, should marry and so should Kent,’ said the Queens ‘This sad affair has brought home to us how necessary it is for every member of the family to do his duty.’

‘I will summon them all,’ said the Regent. ‘Their duty must be pointed out to them.’

‘So many children,’ mused the Queen, ‘and not an heir among them.’

‘If Charlotte and the child had lived—’

‘Ah, yes, you did your duty, painful as it was.’

‘Painful, indeed,’ echoed the Prince.

‘I always thought it was a pity you took that one instead of my niece Louise. I knew it was wrong at the time. Alas!’

‘Alas!’ repeated the Prince. Then he added briskly: ‘I will speak to my brothers. They must marry without delay. As for myself—’

‘As for yourself—’

‘I don’t give up hope. She is behaving in the most outrageous manner. We must have proof soon.’

‘Oh pray God it will come,’ said the Queen piously.

It was not difficult to persuade the Dukes of the need for them to find wives as quickly as possible. They were no longer very young, any of them— and marriage was a duty of which they had been very neglectful. The Duke of Kent was a little disturbed because he was devoted to his mistress, Madame St. Laurent, with whom he had been living for the last twenty-seven years; but like his brother, the Duke of Clarence, he was prepared to do his duty.

Very soon the public learned that there was to be a double wedding at Kew.

The Duke of Clarence had been accepted by Princess Adelaide of Saxe-Coburg Meiningen who was very beautiful and thirty years younger than he was, so it seemed likely that they would be able- to provide the country with its heir. But just in case they were unable to, the Duke of Kent had chosen for his bride Mary Louisa Victoria, a widow of the Prince of Leiningen.

In the Queen’s drawing room overlooking the gardens, the double wedding took place— two middle-aged bride grooms with young wives; at least Mary Louisa Victoria was not old and Adelaide was thirty years younger than the Duke of Clarence.

It was to Clarence and Adelaide that everyone looked for the heir; neither of the husbands was in love with his wife nor the wives with their husbands; the great purpose behind these marriages was to get an heir quickly, and they knew it.

They were fired with ambition, all four of them; and when the Duke of Kent looked at his comely plump widow he was certain that he and she had as much chance as William and this pretty young girl from Saxe-Coburg Meiningen.

And the Prince Regent as he led the congratulations when the ceremony was over was sentimentally dreaming of a bride with whom he would defeat the ambitions of these four people; a beautiful woman— a combination of Perdita Robinson, Maria Fitzherbert, Lady Jersey and Lady Hertford— yet subtly different from any of them— young, tender, adoring. He would marry her and together they would produce a son who would be heir to the throne.

There was time yet if only— But here he was back to that perpetual and frustrating matter.

He must be rid of her soon.

She reasoned with Elizabeth but Elizabeth for once opposed the Queen who at length agreed because she knew that the Regent would be on his sister’s side and would say that if she wished to marry she should do so.

So the marriage took place.

The ceremony in the throne room was very formal and the Queen felt very sad to lose yet another daughter.

The Prince Regent was unable to attend the ceremony because he was ill, and there was no doubt that Charlotte’s death had upset him greatly. He would be well again, thought the Queen, if only he could be rid of that odious woman. If it were his marriage we were celebrating to a young and fertile woman how pleased I should be! Marriage was in the air. The Princesses saw no reason why their brothers should be married and not they. All this time, they had lived under the direction of the Queen, not allowed to stray very far from the closest supervision as though they were children. Their youth was past. Charlotte had married the Prince of Würtemberg and in spite of the mystery which surrounded her husband’s first wife appeared to be living happily; Amelia had died at the age of twenty-seven, unmarried.

It was so unfair, said the Princesses, never to have been given a chance of marriage.

Mary announced that she would marry her cousin, the Duke of Gloucester. He was a little simple and known as ‘Silly Billy’ but she did not care about that. She was past forty anyway and was going to seize this last chance.

The Prince Regent had never been averse to his sisters marrying. Had he been in control earlier he would have done his best to find husbands for them. It was the King who had hated the thought of their marrying. So now no obstacle was put in her way.

Princess Elizabeth was determined not to be left out and when an opportunity came from Homburg she made up her mind to take it. The Prince of Homburg was very fat— but Elizabeth was by no means slim. ‘And at least, she said to Mary, ‘he is a husband.’

The Queen was against the marriage. She saw her daughters disappearing one by one. She had grown so accustomed to having them all about her; and they had made up to a very large extent for the trouble her sons had caused her.

The waters of Bath had done little to alleviate the Queen’s illness and although she had attempted to ignore this during the various marriage celebrations she knew that she was very ill indeed.

I’m getting old, she thought. I’m seventy-five and have had my life. I must expect now to prepare myself to go. She wished that she could have been with the King. He would have been most sympathetic. But he, poor sad man, was living through his clouded days at Windsor and he would not understand if she talked to him. And if he did, it would only upset him.

He never loved me, she thought; but he had some affection for me. He respected me. He knew that like him I tried to do my duty. She thought she would go to Windsor in any case because she would like to be near him; but first of all she would go to Kew. Dear little Kew, the palace which she had loved more than any because it had been like home to her. Yes, it was fitting that she should first go and say goodbye to Kew.

She was comforted in some degree to be there again— the dear Green and the Strand and those houses where the members of the household had lodged because there had been no room for them in the Queen’s Lodge. Oh, those little rooms, the numerous cupboards and cubby holes! How draughty it had been in the passages and the rooms had always been overheated. The chapel had been icy too. In the winter everyone had caught cold there. Why did she love the place? Because it was unlike a royal palace, because it was homely, because it would always be ‘dear little Kew’. Here— the children had been young.

The Prince of Wales— a bad boy— creeping out of his apartments after dusk to meet young women in the garden. He had always been a source of delight and trouble to her: her first-born, her, favourite. Now, thank God, they had at last come to an understanding.

She would be loath to leave Kew. She would not say this to anyone but she felt that if she did so, she would never see it again.

She was glad that the Princess Royal seemed to be making a success of her marriage, and Elizabeth wrote happily from Homburg. The girls should have been married before. But the King would not have it and she must confess that she encouraged him in this because she wanted them about her. The sons, they had been unable to control. They had gone off and had their matrimonial adventures— disastrous ones— but the girls had been denied those opportunities. And now Elizabeth and Mary as well as Princess Royal were married, but none of them young, It was no use regretting now. What was done was done.

She was ill— seriously ill at dear little Kew. She was aware of her daughters, Mary and Augusta, constantly at her bedside. The Prince Regent came too. He held her hand and wept, and she was happy.

More than anyone in the world she had loved him. The period when they had hated each other and had worked so violently against each other seemed now like a temporary madness which had come to her and to which he had responded, It was love really, she told herself. I wanted him to love me and I was jealous because he loved others more, and so I pretended to hate him and I behaved as though I did. But that was all past and now he was with her, at her bedside, holding her hand.

Sophia was not there because Sophia was ill. Otherwise she would have been with her sisters.

Her sons came to visit her and she was vaguely aware of them: the new bridegrooms whose wives might well give birth to an heir to the throne.

But in her heart she hoped George would be the one to do this. If they could get rid of that woman— She knew how that matter occupied the mind of her dearest one.

All through the week the Prince Regent’s carriage was seen going to and from Kew, and it was recognized that the Queen was nearing her end; and on a dark November day her family gathered in her bedroom for the physicians had warned them that the end was very near.

She had insisted on being put in her chair and she sat there breathing heavily.

Her family was with her and the Prince Regent was seated beside her; her hand was in his.

And so she died.

It was fitting that it should be Kew Palace where she should lie in state. The Prince Regent was so affected that he had almost fainted at the moment of her death. He was overwhelmed by remorse for all the enmity which had been between them, sorrow that he could no longer let her know that she was restored to his affections and a great relief that they had parted good friends.

He wished that she could have lived longer to see him parted from the woman he had married. He believed that if she could have seen that, if he could have married, she would have forced herself to live and see his heir.

But it was not to be.

Her coffin was carried by torchlight from Frogmore to Windsor and there she was buried in the royal vault.

This was a period of momentous events in the royal family— for births and deaths must be so called.

The Prince was tiring of Lady Hertford. She was frigid and no one knew whether or not the friendship was platonic. What he needed in his life was comfort and affection. He did not get this from Lady Hertford whose greatest concern was to protect her reputation and to lead him in politics.

For a time he had been fascinated, but with the loss of his mother he needed a woman who could be loving, affectionate and uncritical.

He thought often of Maria. He would always think of Maria. But Maria had retired from the scene; she wanted no more upheavals in her life. She had diverted her affection to Mary Seymour, little Minney. She was old— older than he was and although young girls had never appealed to him and he had chosen one grandmother after another, he wanted someone whose beauty could inspire him.

Marriage! He thought continually of it. Which always brought him back to the same problem.

There was another birth in the family. Not, it was believed, a very important one this. In May of the year 1819 the Duchess of Kent produced a daughter.

She was called Alexandrina Victoria.

The Clarences had not been so fortunate as the Kents. The Duchess had borne two children, none of whom had survived. Meanwhile the Duke of Kent gloated over his plump, healthy little daughter whose looks already showed her to be a true member of the House of Hanover.

He was delighted, he remarked to his Duchess, that little Victoria had a chance— a very fair chance. York could not produce an heir now; and it seemed that Clarence could not. And if they did not there was nothing between their own little Victoria and the throne.

‘But a girl,’ said the Duchess, her eyes sparkling at the prospect.

‘The English are not averse to women rulers. There was Elizabeth. There was Anne. They were both more popular than any George has ever been.’

He spoke regretfully. He had wanted to christen Victoria ‘Elizabeth’, but the names had been chosen for her and she was Victoria after her mother.

‘I have a feeling,’ said the Duke, ‘that what I hope might well come to pass.

It’s just a feeling but it’s very strong.’

Shortly afterwards he took his wife and child to Sidmouth which he thought would be healthy for little Victoria. It was a rainy season and on several occasions the Duke, who was fond of walking, was out in torrential downpours, as a result of which he caught cold; inflammation of the lungs set in and in a few days he was dead.

Little Victoria was fatherless but a step nearer the throne. And within a few weeks she had taken even another step forward. The King whose mind had given way so many years ago but whose physical health had remained very good, suddenly became ill.

He had no will to live. In those rare faintly lucid moments when he was aware of what had happened to him, he had always wished for death.

He need wish no longer.

Six days after the death of the Duke of Kent he too was dead.

The Prince Regent had become George IV.